Legacy
by Rube
Summary: Draco finds out something odd about his father's past. Warning: Slash (and het); Lucius Malfoy/James Potter, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter.
1. Chapter One

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Legacy

(One)

A faint rapping at the window, too steady to be made from the wind. Draco Malfoy had been lying awake all night, or he wouldn't have heard it. All night, something stirred him from slumber before he could completely reach it. Something tugged at his gut and wouldn't let him rest. 

Groaning, Draco heaved himself out of bed and fumbled for his wand on the bedside table. He made his way, rather blindly, to the source of the noise. If Draco was surprised at seeing his mother's owl, he didn't show it. He let the creature inside where it fluttered to his escritoire. Blinking, Draco unfolded the slip of paper the owl had dropped in his palm; written in his mother's handwriting.

Draco scanned the note quickly and let it drop to the floor, stepping on it with his bare heel on his way back to bed. He looked thoughtful for a minute, an expression that, coupled with his melancholy, didn't suit him. He shook Harry until he rolled over onto Draco's empty side of the bed, awake.

"Draco?" Harry stared up at him. "What is it?"

"My father is dead." It was a fair, flat statement, and it was true. 

"I'm sorry, Draco," Harry said quietly.

"I have to go," he responded dully, and Harry nodded.

"I know." Harry tried rather unsuccessfully to give him an encouraging smile.

"I have to gather my father's things," Draco said. "I'm probably going to miss the end-of-the-year feast..." He gave an unconcerned shrug. Harry nodded and made to leave the bed, gathering the sheet between his fingers to cover himself, but apparently decided that his modesty wasn't important and dropped the sheet onto the bed. Draco crossed the room to his closet and ruffled through it, trying to find his trunks so he could pack.

A few minutes passed. Soft footsteps sounded behind him. Draco cocked his head and started to turn, but warm hands he could feel even through his nightshirt slid down his torso and anchored around his stomach. "I'm sorry," was sleepily murmured into his shoulder, Harry's humid breath seeping through the material of his shirt. 

"Thank you, Harry," Draco said softly, pulling away from the embrace. Draco realised grimly that it was close to the closest moment they had ever shared, and with the way things were heading, the closest moment they would _ever_ share.

Harry watched Draco finish packing silently. Draco packed rather quickly; his belongings weren't strewn aroundthe room like Harry's things tended to be. The room seemed impossibly bare to Harry now, and filled with a bone-deep cold, so he wrapped his arms around himself and tried to warm up. The cold didn't appear to bother Draco in the slightest; he moved throughout the room unaffectedly, even while he changed, but Harry supposed Draco had plenty of years to get used to the temperature in the dungeons. 

Draco was ready to leave. He crossed the floor and stared at the window across the room, avoiding Harry's gaze. "Send me an owl," he said, before tugging the door open and leaving without another word.

"Of course," Harry whispered to the empty room, pausing a moment before walking back to the bed. He lay down, forearm shielding his eyes. 

Meanwhile, Draco lugged his heavy cart through the dungeons. In Draco's view, a telling gesture; he gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. Sheepishly, Draco realised he wasn't nearly as impervious to his father's death than he had thought, and was glad no one was around to witness the slip, though he doubted they would recognize the reasons behind it.

The halls of Hogwarts were unusually quiet. Even Peeves, who usually chose the time just before sunrise as to be the most unruly, was silent. The castle felt gloomy and silent, or perhaps that was just Draco.

The predawn air was biting and thick to breathe in. Draco was glad he'd thought to wear gloves as he waited for the family carriage to arrive. It was pelting rain, too, and the sky was flushed dark. Draco thought it might snow. He must have looked impossibly odd, but no one could see him; eyes half-narrowed, waiting for the carriage, a solitary, tiny figure in the blinding expanse of the absolute distance that surrounded Hogwarts. In front of him, the lake was starting to ice over.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco spotted something quite large flying towards the ground and straightened his posture. The flying carriage settled on the ground, and icy dust kicked up over the toes of Draco's shoes. He paid no heed. The driver would collect his luggage, he knew, and so he climbed into the passenger compartment, shutting the obnoxious dark purple blinds and slumping down in his seat, thankful no one was making the journey with him.

His father was dead, but the world hadn't changed for anyone else. 

But his father _was_ dead, and that meant funeral arrangements that Narcissa had likely already taken care of. There would be hands to shake, black to wear. Pensive frowns from people who deemed that Draco just didn't seem _right_; too sorrowful, not sorrowful enough. Draco was so like Lucius, and it was a terrible shame, or so Draco secretly thought. He would frown at their raised eyebrows and pressing hands and frowns until it all became a tumult of agonising, faceless people. His father's funeral, and he could already see it. Draco shut his eyes.

When he next opened his eyes, he was halfway to the Manor, and the rain had almost completely stopped. He pushed his fingers through the purple curtain and opened a window, not at all surprised when the air that caught him was thick and felt colder than it had earlier that morning. The temperature made him feel slightly light-headed, and he pressed his hand to his forehead.

Draco was surprised by how often he did not take into account or even question the people and things around him. As a child, he was inquisitive by nature; Draco learned to question those who hardly even entered his surroundings. Ultimately, it had made him patronizing and Lucius had snapped at him on more than occasion. He'd learned how to stop the behaviour, but remained somewhat derivative but wholly lacking of imagination, and that probably had a great deal to do with his never-changing and even slightly lifeless relationship with Harry. 

It wasn't as if Draco had been encouraged or taught how to handle such things. Lucius Malfoy, upon finding out that a colleague of his happened to fancy creatures of his same sex, respectfully cut all ties and contact with his associate. Inconveniently enough, Lucius was an important man, and all who heard of the snub followed suit. Draco hadn't been surprised and wasn't at all sympathetic; if the man had been foolish enough to voice his preference in front of Draco's father, then he had to deal with the consequences. However, it made Draco a bit uneasy. If Lucius were to find out that he and Harry were carrying on, Draco couldn't even imagine the kind of consequences that would befall his title and inheritance. 

Draco squinted into the distance, lost in his thoughts, and was surprised to discover that the Manor wasn't far off at all; he could just see the roof and part of the gardens. The reminder of home only brought up more contemplation.

His father had made it clear that if Draco were ever to fall out of line, he'd be severed from the Malfoy name, and Draco had no wish to fund his own education and buy his own clothing and other necessities. The thought of food and shelter during summer and after Hogwarts didn't really occur to him until later, as an afterthought. Draco had never once considered broaching the subject of his affinity for the same sex once with his father. Lucius Malfoy had died, and he had died thinking his son was a heterosexual.

They had to be close to landing. Draco pushed the curtains aside completely and leaned to look out the window, studying the grounds. House-elves scuttled along like ants, and when they noticed his arrival, ran off in different directions to hide. 

His mother was probably not there to greet him and probably wasn't even on the property; most likely, she was off somewhere shopping. It was always like that when Draco stayed at home: Narcissa off drinking tea and shopping with friends while Lucius whiled away in his office at the Ministry or in his office at home, the door latched. Narcissa didn't appear to want the way of things to be otherwise. The carriage hit the grass with a skittering thud, but he didn't make to leave it just yet.

Harry was absolutely dumbfounded when Draco had told him about his mother. He couldn't possibly fathom that anyone could be that shallow. Somewhat amused, Draco had reminded Harry of the Dursley's and that dratted cousin of his. There had been a quiet silence. "It's really not that much of a difference, if you think about it," Draco had confessed, though, truthfully, he could scarcely believe it himself. 

Sighing, he unlatched the door and stepped outside. Without waiting to check that his trunks were being unloaded, he started towards the door. Draco passed the charmed shrubberies and bubbling fountain that sat in the middle of the path, feeling strangely detached. He glanced at the upper levels of the house in a flight of curiosity, and saw that his rooms were open for airing. 

The mansion hadn't changed since his last stay. Draco hadn't thought it would, but even so, the cold rooms and the sterile smell of the house dazed him. He stood in the middle of the long hallway, nails digging into his palms. "Draco," he heard and spun, startled. "Good morning."

"Mother." He gave her a slight nod. "Hello. It's been a while, hasn't it?"

She gave him a vague smile. "You look just like Lucius," she murmured, taking deliberate steps towards him, but making sure to keep her distance. She wore bold scarlet and heels underneath open black robes. Her choice of clothing didn't surprise him. 

When Draco didn't answer, Narcissa frowned and moved forward the final feet, brushing back a strand of hair that fell over his brow. He started and moved to brush her hand away, but she dropped her hand before he could. 

"I'm not a Death Eater, mother." And he had no reason to be. Not yet. Narcissa winced at his harsh tone and took a step back. She covered her flinch with a faint smile. 

"No, you're not," she murmured. Draco nodded, deciding that the conversation was pointless. She gave a diminutive, defeated sigh and walked away down the hallway to her rooms. His stance slumped just a bit, and he felt intensely thankful that she was gone. He'd never been at ease in her presence and now he felt his unease more than before. "Draco?" He started again, turning to see her paused in front of a staircase. 

"Mm?"

"A lot of what Lucius left you is in the attic." He frowned. It _should_ have been under the drawing room floor. It had _always_ been underneath the drawing room floor. Why had Lucius decided to move it?

"Oh." He paused. "Such as?" She didn't respond, and uncomfortably stared down at her hands. At length, Draco nodded. "I'll go up there soon," he promised, and meant it. The attic was almost certainly filled with a wealth of Lucius' Dark Arts books and spells which could be put to use very soon. Or, Draco estimated, sold off for a very sizeable profit. Narcissa paused for another moment and then went up the stairs. Draco turned away, and her footsteps trailed off into silence.

___

He slung the lightest of his trunks onto his bed, irritated that the house-elves hadn't thought to put it there in the first place. Unfastening it, he flipped the top open and rustled through the contents. Everything he needed - everything he had really lived with for his years at Hogwarts - was in his trunks. Draco frowned and studied the neat rows of folded clothing and scattered personal items. He turned away from the opened trunk and removed his robe. His wand he tossed on his bed, next to the trunk. 

Draco couldn't think of anything to do. He didn't want to unpack; his room felt too impersonal to sleep in, but he didn't feel the inclination to search the mansion for somewhere else to stay, and he certainly didn't want to return to Hogwarts for the end-of-the-year feast. Looking around, Draco found himself indifferent to its contents. His shelves were stocked with useless metals, and his desks were filled with unimportant, outdated letters, most of them from his first girlfriend, Pansy Parkinson. He couldn't believe he'd kept what he had; Draco wasn't fond of sentimentality, and felt an itch to throw it all away. 

Instead, he changed out of the clothes he wore and into a sweater and black trousers. Although proud of being a wizard, he didn't find the chosen attire of Hogwarts incredibly appealing for every-day wear. Draco rarely wore robes outside of public functions. Harry had always teased that Draco, with his pasty skin and hair, looked like a reaper when he wore black.

Still at a loss for something to do, he considered his options. His mind was too fitful to try and pay attention to a book and the house was always empty of games. Half-heartedly, he realised that starting out on the attic might be a could idea. He brushed imaginary wrinkles from his trousers and strode towards the door, peering out into the hallway to check for signs of activity. Narcissa had probably left already, and the only disruptions he might have to worry about were the house-elves (who generally stayed out of sight).

Walking towards the stairwell, he idly wondered what Harry and his annoying comrades were doing. Likely packing, or rather, knowing Harry, putting it off until after the feast. After Hogwarts was closed for the summer, he'd run off to the Burrow to spend most of the summer lazing about. Perhaps Harry would try out for various Quidditch teams or try to secure a job at the Ministry. Draco felt a pang of regret. Lucius couldn't have waited a day or so to die, when Draco could have had more time to tie up all the ends at Hogwarts? Draco still needed to see about grade transcripts if he was going to apply for a job at the Ministry, and he had wanted to talk to Professor Snape for advice.

Sighing, he trudged up the stairs and chose not to think about it. He could always owl Hogwarts and invite Professor Snape over for dinner. Draco nearly tripped on a rickety stair, swore loudly, and clung to the railing, wondering why the hell he was doing this instead of taking care of his errands. Still, he was several flights up already, and the attic did need to be taken care of. 

Reaching the attic door, Draco pushed it open and flicked on the light, wrinkling his nose at the dusty clutter. His mother hadn't mentioned the monstrous amount of boxes he would have to sift through. Making his way to the left corner of the room, Draco worked the lid off of the first box and peered into it, smothering a cough when dust rose. 

A lot of the stuff could go to Crabbe and Goyle; despite his father's ambitions, Draco wasn't going to become a Death Eater, especially now. No, he'd much rather prefer working in some office for the rest of his live than slaving for Voldemort. It wasn't a matter of conviction, just labour preference.

After wading through a few more boxes, Draco gave up on the idea of giving it all to Crabbe and Goyle - the price he could get for most of it would sell highly on the market and, if not, he could give it to the Ministry for a reasonable reward. They always wanted items to confiscate from the market and study. 

Boredom started to set in at around the fifth box. What _did_ Lucius think Draco could do with some of this stuff? Annoyed, he set carefully set down a few vials of poison and popped the lid off of yet another trunk.

Lucius' old Hogwarts things. This was much more interesting. He skimmed through what was inside the box; a cloak, his father's first wand, grimy, dog-eared and split old books. 

A photo album fell open. A few tattered pictures were pasted inside the book. In the first, three young men stood together. A quite young Severus Snape waved at Draco. It must have been quite windy out, because Snape's long hair was blowing into his eyes. Beside him, Lucius Malfoy squinted out at Draco, giving a feeble wave. Draco stared at him, surprised at how blindingly similar he was to his father. There were subtle differences in height and hair length and even posture, but the jaw line and sulking gray eyes - even the widow's peak - was the same. 

A small shiver ran up Draco's spine. The resemblance to his father wasn't what struck Draco as odd, it was who was next to his father, arm draped casually around Lucius' shoulder as if it had been there scores of times. Lucius was perfectly fine with it, and even leaned in to the frame of the body next to his.

__

James Potter. 

James Gryffindor _Potter_. Good looking, just like his son. The overall resemblance was amazing. Draco's gaze flicked down the photo. Something glinting off of the hand on his father's shoulder stopped him; a green emerald. A Slytherin ring, he realised, and it dawned on him that it was almost certainly _his father's _Slytherin ring. Shaking his head in confusion, Draco set the picture down and looked inside of the box.

There was one item left, a medium-sized black book. He picked it up and turned it over, cursing when three or four loose pages spilled from its binding. Was this his father's personal spell book? It didn't appear to be from Hogwarts... He pushed the notes aside without reading them and turned the book over, startled to see the words "Lucius Malfoy" in proper gold script. Draco flipped it open to the first page and found himself once again face-to-face with James Potter. 

This time it was a drawing. In rough grays and scratchy blacks, hair sweat-slicked and messy, glasses nowhere in sight, half naked - saved only by a scant swatch of blanket bunched around his hips, smiling like an especially pleased cat at whoever drew the picture.

Whoever drew the picture. It was signed 'Malfoy.' 

Draco swallowed hard. 

__

|James Potter is sprawled across Lucius Malfoy's bed. Completely naked, he lay on his stomach, legs swinging back and forth in leisurely boredom. He peered at his companion, jaw propped on his palm, bows furrowed. "Lucius?" 

"Mm?" 

"Are you coming to bed?" he asked, sitting up. He fumbled with the sheet and finally anchored it around his waist, scooting back towards the headboard. 

Lucius glanced up at him from underneath apprehensive brows and self-consciously batted a lock of hair out of his eyes. "Soon. Why?" A little frown started to spread on Lucius' concentrated face, and from between the fingers of his left hand a quill dropped onto the book propped on his lap. 

"Well, I..." he started, biting on his lower lip. Lucius gave him an odd glance that smothered the rest of James' courage. "Never mind."

"No," Lucius persisted, his eyes narrowing down into a dogged slant James recognised easily. He snapped the book on his lap shut and moved it onto the table-top next to his chair, nearly knocking over a half-filled glass of water. "What is it?" A strange smile replaced the worried frown. "**You** bought me the diary, James. You should have told me you didn't really want me writing in it. If it was just for the novelty, or something," he added, eyes giving away his wariness.

James laughed and pulled his knees up to his chest. "Well, if you want to know the truth... I'm horny," he said, quite seriously. Lucius' face coloured, and he fidgeted, mumbling something.

"Pardon?"

"You're always horny," he whispered, though there is no distaste to be found.

"You're quite right," James agreed, giving Lucius a wry smile full of affection. "But you've never complained."

"And I won't," Lucius declared, voice airy. Giving Potter a rueful, awkward little smile that neither quite believed, Lucius yawned and flopped down on his bed. "You said something about being horny?" he asked boldly. 

"Yeah, I did, didn't I?"

"James," Lucius whispered, parting his legs in a fashion of sex that he'd just learned and liked to play with. But only when it was dark. However, for this, for **James**, he would try and get past his anxiety of daylight and sex. "Come here?"|

Face blank, Draco carefully closed the book and set it on the dusty floor beside him. Standing, he brushed the dust off of his black trousers and checked his fingernails for any dirt he'd lodged underneath them. His hands shook when he looked at them, and so he stuffed them into his pockets.

He couldn't think about this. To begin with, none of it made any sense.

But he couldn't _not_ think about this. It would hound him.

His mother. Where did his mother fit into all of this? Where did Harry's mother fit into this? Had either of them put a stop to... whatever had been between his father and James Potter? 

Anger and confusion boiled inside of him when he realised the enormity of what he'd read. According to that journal, his father had been in love with James Potter, or at least thought he was. Draco couldn't question the contents because reading the passages hadn't been like reading the elaboration of a lie. Draco recognised his father in the journal, even though the temperament of Lucius was almost completely different. Draco recognised his father, from the looping script of his handwriting and fluid speech pattern.

The pieces of the story he'd already uncovered were jagged and didn't fit anywhere, at least not with the image of Lucius Malfoy that Draco had. The Lucius Malfoy he knew would have burned himself alive rather than admit to falling in love or even lust with a man. Nothing made sense.

Draco grabbed the worn diary and left, hardly remembering to close the door behind him. He took the stairs one by one, feet steady, book tucked under his arm. 

He made it to his bedroom. Shutting the door quietly behind him, Draco padded over to his desk and noiselessly set the book down on it before taking a seat. His hand darted up to his forehead and Draco, in that moment, felt tired beyond his years, but it did not last long, because moments never do.

_____

He read for another hour or so. It was darker in the room. Draco looked up bleary-eyed at the windows, and noted that the sun had indeed gone down. The clock at his desk told him it was around dinnertime and he hadn't eaten a thing that day, or so he could remember. Shoving away from the desk, Draco managed to climb down the stairs and stared blankly at the empty household.

Only one plate was set in the dining room, a sure sign that his mother was nowhere near the vicinity of the Manor. Draco briefly thought of Hogwarts and remembered that the end of the year feast was fast approaching and that he should have been there but wasn't. He took his seat at the plate, shifting at the lot of emotions that overwhelmed him. Draco couldn't decided how to feel, and picked up his fork instead. 

This was his father's chair. 

He looked down the long table and got up from his chair, picking up his plate and utensils. He moved all the way to the other end of the table and sat, slamming the priceless china. "Father's table to sit at, father's things to own, father's food to eat, father's money to take, father's fuck-toy's son to screw," he muttered, jaw set in a harsh line.

Draco didn't want to feel like or be like Lucius Malfoy. He didn't want to make the transition from Draco to Lucius so easily. Groaning, Draco threw down his fork, not even realising that he hadn't ordered the house elves to bring him food. He buried his slightly reddened face in his hands.

"Ah, there you are."

Draco's back stiffened in surprise and he dropped his hands to his sides. "Potter." He didn't bother to turn around; Harry would take a seat anyway. "What are you doing here?" True to form, Potter strode to the head of the table and took his seat at Draco's side, thrumming his fingers on the cloth. Draco frowned. "_How_ did you get here?" he added, eyes narrowing suspiciously. It was best not to wonder; Harry Potter, after all, would always have his ways, and no matter what he said it would be infuriating.

"I, uh. You left something," he explained, ceasing the tap of his fingers.   
  
"What?" 

"You left your ring," he explained, fishing in his pocket and coming up with Draco's house ring. Potter studied it in his palm and after a moment, slid it towards Draco.

"You could have just owled," he countered, picking up the ring.

"I could have," Harry acknowledged, staring at Draco's profile. "But there were circumstances, and I-"

"Circumstances?" he cut off sharply, turning to glare fiercely. Harry looked away.

"I've taken a job with Charlie Weasley in Romania," he said, not meeting Draco's eyes. "I leave in three days, and I thought I could spend them with you. Help you out, all that." Harry flushed just a little, on the rise of his cheekbones. Draco stared at him blankly. "I'm sure you need help," he finished lamely.

"You mean that you're leaving me?" The words hung in the air between them sourly.

"Not exactly," Harry protested weakly, "but you could look at it that way, I suppose."

"You're leaving me." 

"Yeah." Harry had the decency to turn a darker, sheepish red. "What did you expect? That I'd teach at Hogwarts... or work at the Ministry, or something?" 

"Yes. Or perhaps play Quidditch." Draco kept staring back at Harry coldly. 

It must not have been the answer Harry expected, because he glanced at Draco, surprised, before answering. "I would absolutely hate working at Hogwarts. Who would be left? What would I teach? Well, you _know_ what I would teach - "

"The Dark Arts, but that's beside the point." Draco felt an instant, strong urge to slump in his chair but fought it back bitterly, ashamed at his reactions. "I thought we might work together, Potter," he said, glancing up at the newly ex-Gryffindor. Disappointment broke loose and crawled around in the pit of his stomach. Draco shoved it down beneath his mounting anger.

"Well, I can't do that either," Potter demurred, spreading his palms in a gesture of frustrated helplessness. Draco didn't buy it. "I'm not happy here in England. I don't _want_ to play Quidditch." Actually, that didn't really surprise him; Potter was just too good at the game to be excited by it anymore. "The only thing I can figure is this. I'll get good, solid experience working with Charlie in the field. It's a sensible choice," Harry concluded, frowning.

"Sensible?"

"I'd be making good money." Draco scowled. Harry didn't need money. He was still swimming in the money left from his parents. "And…" He caught his bottom lip between his teeth. "Honestly, if this is about us... how long do you think we'd really be able to last, after the novelty of this whole affair wore off?"

There was a pause. "Well, you're not leaving me, certainly not like _this_," he said indignantly.

"Malfoy," Harry glowered, bracing his palms on the table, leaning close enough for Draco to clearly see the glint in his eyes, "we don't love each other." Something flickered in Potter's eyes but was too quick for Draco to analyse. "For all everyone knows, we hate each other. There is _no_ happy medium. All I can figure is we're in it for the sex." 

Potter was right, admittedly. When they weren't fucking, they didn't get along. And lately they weren't fucking very much.

"Whatever the reasons, you are not packing up and leaving on a moment's notice." Draco snorted and folded his hands on the tabletop. 

"We have three days," Harry reminded Draco. 

"That's not much for a fare-thee-well. Why did you decide to come here, anyway?" Draco demanded. "Did you think I'd give you my approval? Hell, what made you think you had the right to come here?"

"I don't know what I thought." It was also perfectly clear to Draco that what _he_ thought didn't much matter to Harry, either.

"Obviously," he sneered. "For someone so supposedly brilliant, Potter, you're quite dense." He thought for a moment, considering Potter and the whole mess with sharp eyes. "You," Draco said, wanting to level a finger at Harry or perhaps jab him on the chest, "are mine. I own you."

"That's absolute rubbish!" Potter countered, gaping. Draco smirked and casually shrugged. The gesture must have hit home with Potter because his entire posture went rigid and he looked ready to spring from his seat. 

"I own you like I own this bloody mansion. As I own a horse, perhaps. You obey me and you _know_ it. You fear me and you _know_ it. You want me, and I delight in all of this. You very possibly hate me for all of this, but _you_ aren't leaving_ me_. I don't give up what's mine so easily, _Potter_." Draco shocked himself at the vehemence in his tone; he sounded exactly like his father, in that moment, and he hated it, but it only made his glare harden.

"I'm not some thing you can toss around and refuse an identity, _Malfoy_. I'm Harry Potter - " Harry started, livid, but Draco cut him off.

"The Boy Who Lived?"

"That's _not_ what I was going to say," he seethed, "but yes, damn you, I am. And you're not going to tell me what to do." He punctuated his outburst by pointing a finger at Draco, who smiled widely in return, eyes filled with malice. 

"You don't think so?"

"I'm not yours, Malfoy. I'm certainly not your… your horse," he choked, "and I'll leave right now if you try to tell me otherwise."

They sat, their positions not quite allowing them to face each other, hands balled into anxious fists. Neither had quite reached the level of anger.

"It was a figure of speech," Draco eventually spat.

"It was more than that," Potter protested, waving a hand to dismiss him, but he was so furious that the limb shook. "It meant more and you know it." Draco wished for a terribly futile moment that Potter wouldn't carry his black-and-white, all-or-nothing personality and accompanying starkness into conversation. It was quite hard to navigate a dialogue with someone who didn't feel the need to consider their words and probably didn't even know what it meant to do so.

"Why are you bothering to tell me this?" he muttered. "If you're set on leaving, why bother to argue the point? Why did you even _tell me_, Potter?"

"You're just like your father, Malfoy," Harry snapped, shifting in his chair, clearly avoiding Draco's question. 

The insult was common and normally wouldn't have prompted more than a bitter laugh, but it cut Draco in exactly the right spot. Draco's lips thinned and his hand, without him evening realising, thumped the table so hard his empty wine glass fell off of the table. Harry had the good sense to shrink back. Draco fought reaching across that small space and throttling him where he sat. 

"Don't you _ever_ presume to think…" Draco stopped himself, eyes cold, his skin burning a feverish red. "One to talk, really. Such a shining father-son paradigm of homosexuality you uphold," he sneered. 

"What?" 

"You heard me," Draco insisted.

"I heard you. I'm just wondering exactly when you lost your mind." 

Draco laughed and sat back in his chair, raising a defiant chin. "You think I'm kidding?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "I wish I were. Your father…" He gave another bark of laughter. "Your father and my father… well. History does have this problematic way of repeating itself, or so they say." Harry blanched.

"What are you saying? You're telling me that your father and my father - "

"_Accio Journal_," Draco snapped, effectively cutting off whatever protest Harry was going to make. The journal took a moment or two before it flew into the dining room, where Draco caught it. "So, Potter," he spat, rapidly, flipping through the pages. "Where do you want me to start? How about my father's first blowjob? Oh I know," he purred, "how about _your_ father's first blowjob?" He tossed the diary in Harry's direction. It landed open, in front of him. Harry scowled and dragged it closer, leaning to read.

And there it was. In plain view. Even Potter couldn't deny the _explicit_ content. His eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "But how can this be?" he murmured, flipping through the pages, cheeks turning bright red. 

"It can _be_ very well, Potter. You know that." Draco gestured towards the book. "Merlin, look at what they were reduced to." He rubbed at his temple and realised he hadn't slept in what felt like forever. 

"But it's my father… with your father," Harry protested. 

"Very astute of you, Potter." He sighed. "Yes, I know. Unlikely." Draco had absolutely no way to reconcile the image of his father in an apparently loving relationship with the one he already had of him; cold, untouchable and disdainful of sentiment. Draco gave a furtive, tired smile when he realised that he'd just described himself. 

Harry shook his head and closed the diary with a soft thump. "I don't know," he muttered, reaching for a glass and charming it to fill with something Draco knew had to be alcoholic. "My father wouldn't have slept with Lucius Malfoy." Draco's eyes narrowed.

"Potters don't sleep with Malfoys?" Grabbing up the diary, he stood and let out a short laugh. "Is that the fucking unwritten law of the universe, you stupid bastard?" Harry glared at him.

"I don't know how to handle this." 

"Then don't. Go home. Or run to Romania. Do something pathetic. That does seem to be your pattern." Draco tucked the book under his arm and turned in the direction of the stairs. 

"Fuck you, Draco," Harry growled, eyes darkening. "I already told you not to push it with me…"

"Get over yourself," Draco hissed, turning around. "You're leaving anyway, what does it matter? You said it yourself; we're both in it for the sex. Why should I walk around on eggshells for you?" Draco knew he was being unspeakably childish but couldn't help himself. He turned back to the staircase.

"Bugger off," Harry tossed at his back. Draco made sure to slam the door behind him. 

___

His headache wasn't getting better. Draco cursed and collapsed onto his bed, burying his face in the musty covers, the comforter cool against his flushed cheek. The journal had made the journey upstairs with him, and he could feel a corner of it poking into his side. He groaned and shifted until he could fish it out from underneath him, and threw it towards his pillow. 

He was too exhausted to _sleep_. Draco grumbled into his blankets and scooted upwards towards his pillow. His head conked against the diary sitting atop of the pillow and he winced at the reminder, rubbing the offended area. Draco flipped the book over until he could see the cover with its fine engravings and expensive leather binding. _Lucius Malfoy_, it read, in perfect, coiling script. "I hate you," he said passionately. As in response, his temples throbbed. Draco groaned and sank down into the bed, yanking the covers over his legs. He shoved the diary aside and tried not to look at it.

Sleep once again proved to be a futile attempt. Seething, Draco reached over and grabbed the diary, opening it to where he'd left off last. He looked around the room, suspicious, as if someone was lurking in the shadows and would expose the nasty secrets hidden within the book.

Actually, something Draco found inappropriately hilarious occurred to him; Lucius Malfoy always ended up in trouble, when it came to diaries. 

__

|Lucius sat by the fire, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully. A book was open on his lap, a rather large ink blotch staining the upper right corner, but he didn't charm it away. Behind him a fire roared on, and occasionally a crackle would burst, the only sound in the otherwise noiseless room. 

The book he held wasn't a diary but a textbook, and the volume he was currently pursuing was on the art of becoming Animagi. Lucius broke from his reverie and smoothed a hand down the page, trying to pay attention to his reading. He often became lost in his thoughts, inspired from a passage of instruction or the like, but tonight his consideration wasn't educational.

A shadow appeared in the golden light cast by the fire. Lucius blinked and scanned the room nervously. "James?" he tried, after a moment of silence.

"I'm here." A loud thunking sound. James put the bag he was carrying on the table behind Lucius. "I had to stop by the common room on my way back up."

"Oh." Lucius wet his lips, reassured. "I thought some first year had snuck in or something," he confessed, giving an embarrassed smile. 

"No, just me," James grinned, absentmindedly patting Lucius' bony shoulder. "I brought the food you wanted." He pointed to the sack behind him, and Lucius twisted around to get a look. 

"You got the Butterbeer?" he asked, surprised. "I didn't think the house-elves wanted to give you anymore, on account of you stealing that last case…"

"Ahh…" James pointed to his Invisibility Cloak with a flourish. "The house elves didn't give me any, per se, but I do have the Butterbeer you wanted." He settled on the couch beside Lucius. "Why? Aren't you proud of me?"

"As proud as I can be of someone who robs vulnerable house-elves blind," Lucius responded wryly, closing his book. 

"Don't be picky," James said, draping his arm across the top of the couch, just behind Lucius' shoulders. "So. Did you hear about Snape?" Lucius' eyes narrowed.

"No. What about Snape?" James shrugged and pushed his glasses up his nose, surprised at the sharpness of Lucius' question.

"Er, not all that much. More of that blasted **diary** business." His uneasy expression softened into a self-satisfied smile. "Peter got a hold of it again - don't ask me how! - and Snape's the laughingstock of the school." His eyes flashed. "Serves the bastard right for what he pulled last week, trying to follow us around. Again."

"Snape's harmless," Lucius murmured. James shrugged.

"Well, whatever the case, he's a damned nuisance." He stretched and yawned but wasn't actually tired. "And now, what with this diary thing, he's proved to be a pervert as well." James gave Lucius a quirky grin, but he only scowled in return.

"He's not a pervert. He's just lonely," Lucius insisted. 

James blinked in surprise. "I… I'm sorry." 

Lucius deflated almost instantly, face growing long. "No. This Gryffindor vs. Slytherin paranoia is a delicate subject. I know you don't like Snape. I'm sorry," he said, still frowning. Lucius didn't know what else to say. He hated talking about Snape, hated talking about their individual houses and the ordeals that went along with them. 

"I, ah, think I'm going to go to bed." James pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, squinting away a headache. "I need to head back up to Gryffindor tower before sunrise." Lucius nodded wordlessly. "Good night," James sighed, moving behind the couch and towards the bed. "Come to bed when you finish studying."

The exchange was unnaturally cold, and Lucius awkwardly tried to resume his lessons, but his eyes kept drifting towards the bed. Sighing dejectedly, Lucius glanced at a clock. It was late... James should go.|

---

Author's Notes: This has been a long time coming; Legacy was started over a year ago, and for a good while now, I've wanted to redraft it. For months, I've wanted to fix the (what I thought was) cheesy characterization, bad spelling, grammar and multiple continuity errors. And now I finally got myself to do it. 

I want to thank my betas, without whom I would lose track of and confuse my tenses, Point of Views and overall grasp on the story. I asked them to be scathing, and, bless their little black hearts, they were. So, thank you to Eram, Jai, Amy and a thank you to Aja for the final read-through.

Finally, my dedication is to Nancy, Lasair and Maya. Just because I wanted to (a lot like Tom Felton's obsession with white-on-black, actually).


	2. Chapter Two

(Two)

When Draco rose, it was sunrise. His windows were open, and he could see the myriad of colours that formed the morning sky. At Hogwarts Draco had kept his curtains closed and rarely watched sunrise except for the small number of times he had slept over in Harry's dorm room. Draco had actually enjoyed basically living without windows, but now the option was gone. He was home, or at least somewhere that resembled one.

He dressed but didn't pay attention to the clothes he wore, which was an absolute first. He was still tired, unbelievably tired, but the thought of even more boxes in the attic (and what he might find in them) kept him from sleep. And there was Harry to deal with - if Harry was still at the Manor, which Draco doubted. Last night's exchange had been too heated; Harry had probably taken off and gone to Romania a few days earlier than planned, just out of spite.

Draco magicked himself a glass of water, smiling thoughtfully over the rim when he realised he could use magic in every day life without punishment from the Ministry. Being an adult (at least in the eyes of Ministry law) already had its perks. Life outside of Hogwarts and Lucius Malfoy seemed to be far superior to the life he'd lived thus far. Surely living a life of independence is better than sleeping in a crowded dorm and living with imbeciles? Though, classes had been all right and Quidditch was wonderful when he didn't lose to Gryffindor, but he hadn't exactly been content at Hogwarts. 

A stupid line of thought. 

Draco downed the rest of his water in two gulps. 

There was nothing of importance left in his room. He went downstairs, thinking of food the house-elves could prepare. Draco didn't necessarily like breakfast food, but he supposed something could be fixed that would sit well with his stomach.

Downstairs, the halls were quiet, cold and empty. Draco was sure he was the only one at home, positive the house-elves were gone somehow, convinced his mother was off somewhere and certain Harry had abandoned him for Romania. He frowned and moved throughout the mansion, room to room, as if searching for something. Draco didn't feel like himself and wasn't in the mood for surprises; wasn't sure he'd be able to deal with them. 

The book, it dawned on him, was tucked neatly under his arm - as if attached to him. He glanced down at it's corner and estimated how many pages he'd read - not even half of the thing. There was more content than Draco had originally thought. His father's handwriting was so small and neat. The whole thing seemed to be filled with the tiny writing, except, he remembered, what had to be the last few pages - those were ripped from the book. He hadn't read the last entry, but he assumed it couldn't have been cheerful.

Draco wanted to read the diary; the thought was tugging at him like a desperate child. He wanted to finish the thing and perhaps make sense of the chaos that had been unearthed. Halfway ready to scream, Draco yanked the diary's pages open to the last entry he'd read and walked blindly for a place to sit. His motions were erratic, impulsive, not at all like him - and he hated it. Absolutely despised the wreck his father managed to make him, even after his death. 

Walking, Draco nearly bumped into the doorway to the dining room, which ultimately reminded him of the night before. He looked up from the book and scowled, taking in the pristine set table and high ceiling. His eyes drifted to a corner -

"Harry?" He dropped the book in sheer disbelief - an understandable shock, so he forgave himself. Harry turned his head to look at Draco and blinked in surprise. 

"Malfoy?" It startled Draco how easily Harry called him 'Malfoy'; obviously, the last night was still fresh on Harry's mind as well. Draco inwardly cringed when he realised he'd called Harry by his first name without even thinking it over. "What time is it?" 

"I have no idea," he responded shortly, but checked himself. "Probably around ten."

Harry was quiet, and the silence ticked at Draco's nerves like a bug.

"I slept down here," Harry explained, but then offered a rueful shrug. "Well, I wouldn't call it sleep."

"I thought you left for Romania?" 

Harry returned Draco's distrustful gaze with full force. "Not for three days. I told you that."

"But…" he floundered. There was nothing he could say. In retrospect, he should have _known_ Harry had stayed - when he made plans, he stubbornly saw them through. "Three days," he repeated finally.

"Yes."

An awkward silence. Draco had to admit that they weren't unaccustomed to that sort of thing.

Oddly, Draco remembered, it hadn't been like that in the beginning. In the early months, it took real, concentrated effort _not_ to speak to Harry - to offer some droll comment or snide insult, to march over to the Gryffindor table and start some pissing contest or other, just to prove that things hadn't changed. The pair still managed to carry on as enemies even when they became lovers, and Draco was satisfied, and liked it that way. 

It seemed to dissipate around Christmastime. Draco had managed to convince Lucius that it was best for him to stay over at Hogwarts during the Holiday, his reason supposedly being to keep a steady eye on Dumbledore and Potter. Lucius had agreed, but Draco doubted it had anything to do with the reason he gave - most likely he just wanted Draco out of his hair for as many months as possible.

Instead of fucking or arguing or doing whatever bored teenagers with free time and space did, Harry and Draco spent time in their separate dorms and rarely spoke to one another. The sex died down and Draco didn't ask. But he wanted to. 

He left the book where it was and stepped on it when he walked closer to Harry. Green eyes curiously followed his movements when climbed to his knees, not three feet away from Harry.

"I don't know what to say to you," Harry started. His voice was louder than a whisper but held the same thoughtful undertone. "And I haven't the will to start trying. With this book, you realise…" he stopped short and it was a long moment of tension before he spoke again. "I thought I would have spent all night fretting over you, or seething in anger." A pause. "I didn't." Harry's deeply thoughtful green eyes met Draco's blank gray, and he didn't drop the contact. "I thought about my father, and what… what my father might mean to me. I mean, if he was still around. And…" Harry stopped his rambling, and it seemed to be for good. 

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Yes?"

"And I'm not sure what to think, that's _yes_," Harry snapped in an unexpected show of furore.

"Neither do I, so I guess we're in the same boat." The comment was meant to be biting, but came out rather soft. He sighed, tired again, and sank back against the cold wall, still only inches from Harry. "Never mind."

"All right."

Silence, for another few minutes. Draco couldn't escape it, and it made the pounding of blood in his ears unspeakably loud. He drew his legs up to his chest and rested his arms on them, staring at the diary over the top of his knees.

"If you want to read it," came Harry's voice from the left, startling him, "go ahead. I'm not stopping you."

Draco turned slightly, but didn't look at Harry, focusing instead on the very small individual carpet fibres of the rug underneath him. "Are you sure?" Lucius had fucked Harry's father. Harry… no doubt had visions of what he thought his father should be, and Draco hardly thought that 'sleeping with Death Eater scum' was one of them. 

Harry shrugged. "I guess." Draco stared at him for a moment, but finally stood and retrieved the diary. He carefully flipped through the pages and settled on the last entry he'd read.

__

|Unfortunately for Lucius, he had the manner of someone easily confused and ill prepared. When the teachers called his name, Lucius would fiddle with the base of his ink well or shred the ends of his parchment, stuttering as if he didn't know the answer when really it was stored neatly somewhere inside of his phenomenal brain, waiting to be fished out and presented. 

Lucius held his books with weak wrists and slippery fingers. His papers always ended up scattered all over the floor. When Lucius was nervous or thinking about something, the most peculiar twitch developed underneath his right eye. Overall, Hogwarts thought he was too blond and sharp to be trusted. 

That was why Lucius was surprised when James Potter asked him for help in Potions. Lucius was standing in the Charms corridor, fiddling with the strap of his bag while students elbowed past him. There was a hesitant touch to his shoulder and he glanced up, eyes wide.

"Hallo." James Potter smiled faintly at him, eyes searching Lucius' face as if he'd never seen it before. Potter did try not to be too obvious about it, and for that Lucius had to give him some credit.

"Hello," he responded, hoisting the strap of his bag up his shoulder. 

"I was wondering if I might ask you something?" 

Lucius found questions of this sort utterly ridiculous - anyone who thought about what they said wouldn't ask to ask a question - but refrained from mentioning it. "Sure." 

"I need… help in Charms. I asked Professor Lewis and he said you were one of the best students in the class." Lucius was surprised. Professor Lewis didn't particularly favour Lucius, although he did quite well in the class. Snape was the star Potions student, and everyone knew that. He couldn't chalk up Potter's not asking Snape for help to house animosity; unless Potter had completely forgotten and the badge on his robes somehow wasn't clear enough, Lucius was a Slytherin as well.

"I see." He stared up at Potter blankly, who had to be at least a head taller. It wasn't that Lucius was terribly short, but that Potter was the unlucky recipient of quite a few growth spurts. Lucky for him, though, all of that Quidditch he played helped to fill him out. Lucius' eyes narrowed when he realised he was analysing Potter's growth rate. 

"So." Potter shifted his weight from foot to foot and looked everywhere but at Lucius. 

"You don't have to be so uncomfortable, asking for help," he said. 

Potter's eyebrows lifted. "Oh. Uh. Sorry." 

"I wasn't reprimanding you. I was simply saying…" he trailed off on a sigh. Potter didn't understand, nor did he care. "Sure, I'll help you."

Potter blinked. "Oh. Thanks, then." Uncertainly, he started to turn around and head towards whatever class he had next.

"What time?" 

Potter spun around. "Pardon?" 

"What time do you want to start? Where, for that matter?" Potter looked dumbfounded, though slightly less uncomfortable. 

"How about…" he squinted, trying to think. "You know I'm a Prefect?" He asked suddenly. Lucius eyed the gleaming Prefect's badge on Potter's robes and glanced down at his own with amusement.

"Yes, I had noticed." 

"So…" Potter appeared to be doing some very quick thinking. Lucius wondered if it hurt, and chided himself for being so callous. Potter wasn't stupid; Potter was a Prefect, as they'd just re-established. "I, er, have my own… room. And," he said, as if it was something very deep and important, "you have your own room."

"Mm-hm."

"So that means we can work in privacy." For a moment, Lucius wondered if this was all some ploy for the Gryffindor group Potter ran around in to get his password and destroy his rooms, or something equally puerile. 

"I suppose it does." 

"Which room do you think we should work in?" 

"It doesn't really matter to me. We'll work in yours," he offered, although it really did matter and he didn't fancy a walk up to the Gryffindor tower every week, or whatever their arrangement would be.

"I have Quidditch practice some nights after dinner… and the dungeons are closer to the field…" Potter looked at Lucius expectantly, who raised his eyebrows. Potter was trying to be agreeable, which would be a nice surprise - if Potter's motives were genuine, and Lucius had some doubts on that score.

"If it's easier, then we'll meet in my rooms." Lucius was starting to become agitated. Potter was keeping him from his next class for an issue that should have been solved already.

"Yes, I think that would be easier." Potter nodded to himself and went to leave again.

"Wait. What time?"

"Tonight. Um. When I get done with Quidditch practice," Potter decided. 

"And what time would that be?"

"Around eight?" 

Lucius eyed him carefully. "Fine. I'll meet you outside of my room." He wasn't foolish enough to give out the password, if that was what Potter was hoping for. But the boy didn't seem perturbed. He nodded and disappeared around the corner. Lucius stood in the hallway for a moment, wondering exactly what he'd just agreed to, and fiddled with the strap on his bag again.|

When Harry's voice came, it startled him; Draco thought he was asleep. "When's your father's funeral?" 

His voice was tired, and Draco glanced down at Harry's mop of dark hair, just beneath his chin. Their position was deceptively tender, as if they spent hours like that, curled around each other. Draco frowned and turned a page. "Tomorrow, I think. Mother hasn't mentioned it." But Draco knew she wouldn't let the body rot for much longer. 

"You're going?"

Draco was momentarily taken aback. "Of course." Why wouldn't he go? It was his father's funeral, after all. It wasn't exactly an event he could skip out on, even if he wanted to.

"Oh, I didn't know that you were going for sure." Harry's voice had dropped into a hushed monotone; clearly, he was displeased at something, and it _couldn't_ have been just Draco. 

"What? What is it?"

Harry very clearly did not want to answer. "You know, Draco." A flicker of relief in Draco's eyes, too quick for Harry to notice, but Draco knew it had been there. 

It was back to Draco and Harry; no longer the brittle accusation of last names. The usage had probably bothered Draco far, far more than it had bothered Harry, but he remembered with some satisfaction that Harry didn't like calling Draco by his last name in the least. "I'm not your fucking teacher," he'd said, naked and angry, when Draco asked why Harry never said his name during sex. "I don't particularly fancy calling out 'Malfoy.' It makes me feel like I'm Snape or something."

"Then don't," Draco had responded, before pressing his lips firmly against Harry's. "Don't call me anything you don't want to, _Harry_," he had whispered, the worlds slightly muffled against Harry's skin.

"Draco," was all Harry replied, on a low moan.

The memory made Draco shiver. 

"What do I know?" Draco asked, more to distract himself than to continue the conversation.

"That what's bothering me is my father," Harry responded flatly, sitting up. "That much is obvious, or so I hope."

"Oh. No," said Draco, closing the diary and turning his full attention back to Harry. "Not really."

"Oh, fuck you." Harry's sigh held more than a hint of exasperation, and he waved a hand in the air as if swatting a fly. 

A sardonic grin replaced the frown Draco wore. "Only if you want to, Harry. I don't want to push you into anything you just aren't ready for," he taunted, sliding down the wall a little, making sure his hands were holding on to Harry tight enough to make him squirm. 

"Draco - "

"No," he growled, and used his mouth to fuck Harry's. 

Draco yanked Harry's glasses from his face and tossed to the floor a good distance away from them. Now Harry couldn't see anything but the pale outline of Draco and the two pools of silver that must have been his eyes. 

It was odd. Harry could have sworn there were no windows in the room, but Draco seemed encased, illuminated with light. He shrugged off the thought when Draco's mouth fastened to his neck. Harry could feel harsh puffs of air against his neck; Draco breathing, reaching around, groaning, using his fingers and some charm Harry had forgotten about to lubricate and stretch him.

Afterwards, Draco watched Harry's peacefully sleeping form and didn't expect to see him again.

--

__

|It was after dinner and after Potter's supposed Quidditch practice, and Lucius Malfoy had already checked his clock about five times. He felt ridiculous and had a sneaking suspicion that he'd been set up, but stayed just outside of his dorm in the corridor out of a sort of morbid curiosity. Potter might actually just be late; it wasn't unheard of, especially for the little group Potter ran around in. Lucius didn't know first-hand what sort of pranks Potter was capable of, but had heard plenty of stories. The Marauders; what he and his little friends called themselves. He snorted at the thought and checked the time again.

__

A moment or two later, footsteps. Lucius raised an eyebrow at the sound, and just as he was about to go and investigate, James Potter rounded the corner, breathing unsteadily and fresh out of the shower. It looked like he hadn't even fastened his robe. Lucius wasn't particularly vain, but he couldn't help finding any sort of untidiness rude. He tried to quell the feeling and gave a not entirely welcoming smile.

"You're here."

__

"Yes." Potter stopped a good two yards away from him. Lucius could see nothing of the supposed prankster in Potter's mannerisms and smirked. So, Lucius made him uncomfortable. It was something that he could easily deal with and perhaps use to his advantage. "I'm sorry about being late." Potter shrugged, biting his lip. Lucius focused on the two rows of straight white teeth. Surprisingly sharp. 

"I didn't wait long," Lucius said, his smile widening. 

"Really?"

__

"No. I'm lying." Potter blinked. Lucius' smile dropped and turned into a frown. "That was a joke."

"I didn't know you joked," Potter explained, dropping his eyes to the floor in embarrassment. 

"Yes, well… Usually I spend my days mocking the poor and marching through the dungeons, but occasionally a joke or two has been known to slip through." Lucius raised his eyebrows expectantly, and Potter gave a short laugh. 

__

"All right, so you can joke." Potter's expression softened just a little, almost into a smile, but Lucius' calculating stare remained the same. 

"Yes. You'll find that I can do many things commonly thought obscure to Slytherins." The house rivalry; something easy and something they both knew. Potter's almost-smile turned into a nervous frown and he tucked his hands into his pockets. "You don't know what to say, do you?"

__

"No. I don't. I'm sorry." Potter's mild discomfort was clearly turning into the desire to run away from Lucius as fast as humanly possible. He sighed. 

"You don't have to be sorry, Potter. That's all you seem to be saying to me, always telling me that you're sorry. No one can possibly be that bloody sorry for so many things so constantly. You're not sorry. You're at a loss. There's a difference," he stated.

__

"Oh." Potter dropped his eyes completely, figuratively pushed into a corner. Something Lucius was unintentionally good at. Sometimes it was quite helpful, but this was not one of those times. Lucius sighed again - what seemed like the millionth time - and stepped closer to the Gryffindor.

"Come in, please. I think we've had enough of this for a night." Lucius turned, not bothering to check if Potter was following, and whispered the password. The stone walls opened just wide enough for an adult to step through. 

From the sounds behind him, it seemed like Potter had followed. Lucius made no move to instigate another conversation, already having an idea of where it would lead, and moved through the room, organizing this or moving that. It was busy work and wouldn't last long, but it filled the time and a part of the silence. "So…" Potter's desperately even voice rang through the cavernous room. "Where should we begin?"

"Have a seat." He waved a hand behind him in the direction of the couch. 

"All right." Potter's strangely soft voice filled the room and startled Lucius into turning around. He spun, staring curiously at the Gryffindor, who sat himself down on Lucius' couch, tapping his fingers against the leather cushions in what might have been read as impatience. Lucius knew better, and saw that it was nervousness. He smiled, not for the first time out of a sort of vindictive triumph. Lucius walked closer to Potter but stopped at the table behind his couch, leaning against it. Looking down at Potter's dark hair, he realised that he had the upper hand - Potter was in **his** rooms, asking for **his** help and at **his **own mercy. 

But. Lucius kept going between wanting to startle Potter and wanting to ease his discomfort. It was making him jumpy, making him terribly nervous. He stopped thinking about it by talking. Potter turned around and face Lucius, arm draped over the top of the couch.

"So, Potter… what exactly are you struggling with?" Lucius stared down his fairly long nose at Potter and crossed his arms over his chest. "Tell me exactly. The spellwork, the motions, what?"

"I, um." Potter turned a rather chagrined red. "I'm not sure, to be honest. I just know that every time I pick up a wand to do an assignment for Charms, I fail at it. Miserably." 

Lucius eyed him. "Do you have trouble in any other subjects that involve wandwork?"

"Not… no. My grades are good enough. It's mainly Charms." 

"You don't suppose you have some sort of mental block, do you?" Lucius asked dryly. Potter raised his eyebrows, and Lucius wagered that he was putting some very crucial points together. He forced back a snort of disgust.

"I might!" Potter chewed his bottom lip. "I really might."

He nodded. "That solved, the question is what to **do** about it." Potter moved to speak but seemed to lose the will, sinking back down into the couch with a frown. 

Lucius sighed and ran his fingers along the smooth surface of the tabletop. An idea struck him, causing a smile in its abruptness and its clarity. "Pick up your wand, Potter." He knew without looking that Potter didn't. "I want to try something. Please pick up your wand." As if to demonstrate, Lucius reached for his own and circled the couch, coming to stand in front of Potter, wand raised. "Stand up," he ordered, patience running thin. Potter stood, smoothing his pants of invisible wrinkles.

Potter studied Lucius' posture and copied it, unsure, raising his wand to the level Lucius held his own. Lucius used his other hand to correct Potter's grip, encircling the boy's palm with his own. "It's a wonder you pass anything involving wandwork," he murmured, checking to make sure Potter's thumb rested along the wand correctly. "You've been doing this all wrong for ages."

Potter shrugged. "I make do."

"Obviously." Potter the Prefect. The words were too easy and behind them there was too much jealousy. Lucius was only made Prefect after years of what seemed like endless study and practice, and Potter stood before him, not even aware of how to properly hold his wand. His jaw clenched. It didn't seem fair.

Potter noticed his sudden change of posture and looked at him warily. "Right." Lucius watched Potter's throat shift as he swallowed. 

"Like this," Lucius instructed, and dropped his hand from Potter's. He raised his wand just a bit higher. Potter unsteadily raised his wand to match it and watched Lucius very carefully. "**Accio glass**," he blurted, thinking of the first truly easy spell he could perform. Lucius' ever-present half-filled cup of water floated towards him, and he reached out easily and grabbed it from mid-air. "Very simple. 'Ah-see-oh' whichever object, Potter."

"Ah-see-oh," Potter repeated slowly, eyes darting towards Lucius' to check that he'd said it right. Lucius nodded and Potter relaxed just a bit. "Accio. Accio. Accio… what should I…?" He looked around the room, eyes drifting over Lucius' sparse furnishings and décor. "**Accio book**," he decided, and, after a tense moment, his Charms book started wobbling (it couldn't have been called flying) towards them. Potter fairly beamed and caught it so eagerly he almost dropped it. 

"It worked."

"You sincerely doubted that it would?" 

Potter didn't answer him, and instead studied the cover of the Charms textbook. "I wonder how long it'll take me before I'm up to standard…?" he sighed, evidently more to himself than to Lucius.

"Not too long, I'd bet. Charms is an easy subject to master after you've got the basics down. Frankly," he started, and Potter looked up at him, "I really am surprised that the teachers haven't noticed this… flaw in your work."

Potter flushed. "Ah. I think they have. A few have mentioned bits about being careless, but they haven't actively…" he fished for words, "… reprimanded me, or anything."

"No, I don't doubt that," Lucius responded, tucking his wand back into his robes for the moment. "You're an exceptional student, and I suppose anything that might compromise your standing just wouldn't be done."

"No, I suppose it wouldn't." Potter's tone turned funny, and if Lucius didn't know any better, he'd say the boy was offended. Curious, he studied Potter's expression intensely, noting the worried lip between his teeth (it didn't seem like there was a space of time in which Potter didn't spend chewing his lip; it really was a horrible habit) and furrowed eyebrows.

"What? What is it?" Lucius had to admit, his tone wasn't exactly convivial, but he was doing the best he could, under the circumstances. This was Potter, and Lucius had learned that around people like Potter, you had to be very, very careful.

Potter took a moment before he spoke. Lucius found these little traits of his - the ones his friends and admirers probably found endearing; all of that shy, blushing earnestness - horribly boring and predictable. It was as if Potter was following some sort of manual; how to blush, how to give this or that expression, how to stammer just so. Horribly, glaringly gauche, but Potter did manage to carry it off, much to Lucius' distaste. 

"Do you really believe that?" Surprised, Lucius made to speak, but Potter's rush of words stopped him. "I mean, do you honestly think that the teachers…"

"Let you get away with so much?" Potter looked down at his shoes. "Well, yes. I do." Potter didn't look up. "Everyone thinks that." It wasn't **entirely** true, but true enough not to be a boldfaced lie, and that was good enough for Lucius. 

"Oh." Potter looked up from his shoes, face completely blank. "I didn't know."|

The next morning before he was dressed, Draco was intent on bringing the diary with him and throwing it in the grave where it belonged. When he was finished dressing, it was eight o' clock exactly, and Narcissa knocked to check that he was ready. Draco reached for the diary but hesitated, and she knocked again, louder, and Draco left the room, the diary untouched. 

It was cold out during the service (odd, it being mid-June, but the weather at Malfoy Manor had always been tricky), and all very Muggleish; the only thing missing was a priest. Or so he supposed. The idea of his father being buried seemed absolutely ludicrous. Next to him, Narcissa shivered delicately, like a rabbit or something equally pitiful, and several people offered their coats. Draco was unmoved by the persistent, windy chill and stared blankly down at the coffin that held his father's corpse.

When he died, Draco mused, he did not want his funeral to be like this.

No one cried and no one spoke. Not even Narcissa could play the suitably grieving widow. No one had cared about Lucius Malfoy in life, and it seemed even less so in death. He had no debts and no real work. The crowd, small as it was, had no real or compelling reason to be there. The funeral was a farce, a formality. Nothing more. 

Looking up, Draco spotted Harry. 

He leaned against an oak a good deal away from the grave, not looking back at Draco or the service, but towards the rest of the grounds. The cold wind tore at the bottom of his cloak and tangled the ends of his boldly Gryffindor scarf, but Harry didn't seem to care. 

The service ended.

The guests went home. 

It was pouring rain on the casket and making mud of the dirt, but Draco stood at his father's open grave with a fistful of already wilting lilies he just couldn't drop. Behind him, a few weak rays of the sun shone, but even so he shivered and gathered his cloak closer to him with his free hand. It was close to raining or even snowing, despite the weak sunlight, and the cold was finally starting to get to him. The flimsy black cloak and simple clothing he wore did nothing to shield him from the biting wind. 

From behind him, utterly familiar but still startling, arms wound around his waist and dragged him away from the grave's edge. In his surprise, the lilies slipped from his palm and one landed on his shoe, the others on the verge of falling into the pit. Draco sagged heavily against the body holding him. 

"You're tired," Harry whispered, mouth pressed against Draco's ear, breath warming it. Draco nodded. "I'm sorry," he added, and slid his hands up higher, around his chest.

"I'm tired and you're sorry?" Draco snorted and started to pull away, but his heart clearly wasn't in it. "That's a little worthless, isn't it?"

"Not to me." Resigned, Harry dropped his arms and stepped a good distance back. Draco bent to gather the scattered lilies and arranged them neatly in his hand. He stepped towards the grave. They all landed quite neatly on top of his father's coffin. Draco smiled. "That looks nice, yes?"

Harry moved behind him again, but made no move to touch him. "Yes. Very nice." Draco's smile faded. 

"I don't particularly like lilies," he offered, "but it's customary, I suppose. Mother and the decorators wouldn't have it any other way."

"They're not here now," Harry said, and in his voice was something strange that Draco couldn't place, so he shrugged it off. "You could spell the flowers into something else."

"Like what? Roses?" Draco laughed, and the wind did nothing to carry it. "Too romantic. No. I think I've changed my mind. The lilies are suiting. I've gotten used to them."

"I'm glad," Harry murmured, although it was perfectly clear he didn't mean it. Draco lifted his gaze, taking in the dull landscape of the manor. It was dismal, Draco knew, and he couldn't blame Harry for being so melancholy. Draco couldn't blame himself, for that matter.

"So am I," he muttered. 

---

Author's Notes: Firstly, a note to several reviewers and emails I've gotten: the bits where Lucius is writing in his diary? Well, for one, that's _not_ Lucius writing in his diary – those are flashbacks. 

Secondly, this would be the edited version of chapter two. The chapter itself contains some adult themes (sex, really) and can be found on my website, in the Harry Potter fan fiction section (see my user profile for the link to the site). Please do not read that version of the chapter unless you are of the age of consent.

Thank you to Praetorianguard/Amy for the absolutely fabulous beta. Honestly, there should be more like her.

Finally, the dedication is to Thess and Cassie. May you plebe forever.


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